


stubborn love

by Bartholemew



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Depression, Fluff, Love Confession, M/M, bipolar, idk ive had this head canon for a while now, mickey gives ian a bath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 15:21:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3534380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bartholemew/pseuds/Bartholemew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Fuck," Mickey swears under his breath, standing still as Ian curls against the warmth of his chest, the red-head’s long fingers wrapping thoughtlessly around his arm. It’s hard to be annoyed when he looks so broken-down, wishing he could erase the bags from beneath his bright green eyes and see the wide smile he’d grown to love. </p>
            </blockquote>





	stubborn love

It’s been years since that last time Mickey’s felt this helpless. It’s something he isn’t used to dealing with, as he’s solved most of his problems through threats, violence, and his own bad attitude. Ever since his father had spent most of his childhood taking away what control he’d had, Mickey was constantly trying to gain the upper hand. 

As he stares down at Ian, he realizes the only one with the upper hand is his boyfriend’s mental illness. A sense of weakness weighs his chest down and he runs a palm across Ian’s shoulder, attempting to comfort himself. It isn’t comforting, though, because the once energetic red-head hasn’t moved from his mattress in close to two days, and all he wants now is to feel Ian’s hand against his own. 

"You hungry yet?" Mickey asks in a voice much softer than he uses with anyone else, tracing Ian’s freckles with gentle touches, "Fiona made… Well, it smell’s like bacon." 

As he expected, Ian doesn’t answer him and instead pulls the sheet closer to his chin, brushing off Mickey’s hand as he does so. The careless action’s are starting to hurt less and less, but Mickey’s heart still aches as Ian continues to stare at the walls instead of him. 

There’s a small part of him that wants to beg Ian to talk to him, or even just look at him. It doesn’t matter that Mickey had barely left his side since his mood had fallen, his boyfriend didn’t seem to care, or even notice. While he want’s to lose his shit, Mickey reminds himself that Ian had been in this position once, trying to pry his head open with nothing but sheer determination and a shared love that hadn’t yet faded. 

"C’mon Ian," Mickey pleads, giving his arm a small shake for the fortieth time in the last couple day’s, "You’ve been wearin’ this shirt for a couple days, and it’s not even yours. It’s mine, and I don’t wash my shit." 

Mickey thinks he can feel a rumble in Ian’s spine, and hopes it was something resembling a laugh. 

"Let’s get you out of this shit," Mickey tugs on his shoulder, trying to roll him in the other direction. With a moan of dissatisfaction, Ian eventually gives in and flops onto his back. 

With a twinge of guilt, Mickey notices the sweat covering Ian’s pale skin and look’s to the window, open and dragging in the hot, summer air. After two day’s under the thin sheets, sleeping in the same dirty outfit, Ian’s in dire need of a shower and Mickey hasn’t even considered it until now. 

"What do you say you jump in the cold water," Mickey suggests as casually as he can, carefully lifting the hem of Ian’s shirt up and over his head, "and then we find something to do?" 

As soon as is Ian is freed from the shirt, he lazily falls back into his pillow, and though his eyes are open for a moment, he’s not looking at Mickey. 

He hasn’t given up yet, and runs his fingers along Ian’s bare chest, “Go shoot the gun a couple times?” 

That apparently merits even less of a response as Ian’s eyelids fall shut and Mickey stifles a groan. 

"Ian, you need to get up," Mickey says with an angry sigh as he stands up beside the bed. While he knows it won’t help, his voice raises as the frustration beneath his chest begins to grow, "Like, right the fuck now." 

Remembering where he is, Mickey attempts to calm himself as he does a quick scan of the Gallagher’s second floor. To his relief, everyone’s been lured downstairs by the smell of breakfast, and he’s starting to consider the idea himself. On the other hand, if he knows Ian is still in bed, there isn’t a chance he’ll be able to stomach a plate of food. 

"Alright," Mickey makes a split second decision, looking Ian up and down while he stretches his arms out. The sun’s hitting Ian’s skin with enough light to make his freckles shine, and he focuses on that while he slips his palm underneath his boyfriend’s knees, and another behind his back, "You asked for it." 

"Mick?" The teen in his arms asks tiredly, his eye’s flittering open as he looks up and finds Mickey's concerned stare, less than an inch away. After another moment, the realization that he’s being carried hit’s Ian, but not hard enough to bring him from his depressed  trance. 

While he’d expected it to be a challenge to carry Ian, Mickey notices that he’s lost weight and stands still a second, staring down at Ian’s red-eyes and tired expression. The last time he’d scraped his drugged-out boyfriend off the ground, he’d simply thrown him over his shoulder. This was different- more caring and personal, and not something he'd ever have imagined himself doing. When it came to Ian, he finds himself always breaking his own rules.

"Fuck," Mickey swears under his breath, standing still as Ian curls against the warmth of his chest, the red-head’s long fingers wrapping thoughtlessly around his arm. It’s hard to be annoyed when he looks so broken-down, wishing he could erase the bags from beneath his bright green eyes and see the wide smile he’d grown to love. 

With no hand’s left to use, Mickey softly kicks open the door and shifts Ian in his arm’s, positioning his long legs to fit through the frame. 

"Can you stand?" Mickey asks, trying to set Ian down on shaky legs. He can’t, it turns out, because his lean body is soon slumping against Mickey’s and Ian’s wrapping his weak arm’s around his neck.

He sighs and hold’s Ian up, appreciating the touch for only a second before reaching for the button on his jeans. For the first time, Mickey’s undressing Ian without the purpose of sex. Instead of rushing to see his boyfriend naked, he’s taking his time as he eases Ian into the movements, hoping that he isn't pushing Ian too far.

"You alright?" Mickey doesn’t expect an answer, but asks anyways as he wrestles against the tight waist band, wondering if Ian was bothered by the constricting denim while he lied in bed for days on end.

He’s never seen Ian so vulnerable, naked and slumped onto Mickey, and find’s that the idea of caring for someone had never been an issue until now. While the sight of his boyfriend undressed would usually turn him on, there was nothing sexy about this- all Mickey wanted was for Ian to feel better, and there was so little he could do. It left him feeling equally as exposed, because even though he was still fully clothed, Mickey had never done something like this for something else. Before he'd met Ian, he'd barely touched another person; it was all quick fucks and rough shoves, but now everything was gentle, and in moments like this, fragile.

"Gunna pick you up again," Mickey mumbled into Ian’s messy hair, leaning down to scoop up his leg’s. Ian was gripping him tight now, his nails digging into Mickey’s skin as he resisted his inevitable release.

The water’s cold when Mickey first spins the tap, but after a minute a hint of steam is rising from the stream. 

"Don’t," Ian whimpers, his finger’s latched tighter around Mickey’s forearm. Beneath his hold, his whole arm is trembling, and though he'd intended his grip to be strong, Mickey could've easily shaken it off. He would've, if it weren't for the crack in his boyfriend's voice as he spoke for the first time in days.

"It’s okay, it’s warm," Mickey tries to reassure him as he lowers him into the tub, but when he tries to sit back, Ian’s still got a hold on his arm. The water’s soaking through his sleeve, but Ian won’t let go, finally meeting Mickey's stare as a tear threatens to fall onto his freckled cheek. 

"Need you," Ian manages to whisper, tightening his grip. His wet fingers slip, but he grasps at the material of his shirt instead,  "Please." 

He'd been planning to leave him with a towel after he'd come to his senses, but the sadness behind Ian's eye's sends Mickey's heart into his stomach. Mickey sighs and peeks around the tiny bathroom, and then back down at his boyfriend, naked and shivering despite the hot water beating on his back.

"Fuck it," Mickey mumbles as he sits on the tub’s edge, letting his pant leg’s soak as he rub’s Ian’s back and tries to sooth the violent shaking, "It's gunna be okay, Ian."

The shampoo is sitting on the floor, and Mickey scoops it up with his free hand.

"Hey, you with me?" Mickey runs his hand through Ian’s short, wet hair, attempting to coerce him from where he's got his forehead against his knees, "C’mon, lift your head up."

Ian’s cheeks are growing red when he looks up at his partner, his bottom lip trembling as the water pours over his skin, and Mickey realizes that he’s trying not to cry. The bottle fall's with a thud against the linoleum as he shakes his head and hold's his breath, looking up to the ceiling as if it might crash down on them. Mickey's own emotions are dangerously close to surfacing, and he doesn't know if he can do this any longer; the expression across Ian's face is enough to make him want to scream, but there's no one to scream at. There's no one to blame, yet Ian's the victim and he doesn't know how to help him recover.

"I'm so sorry," The water lingering on Ian's lip's bubbles around his words, cut off by a muffled cry, "I'm sorry."

"Jesus Christ, Ian," Mickey mutters as the shower soaks his sleeve, brushing off the apology that sounded so genuine it hurt, "You've got nothin' to be sorry for, alright? This shit isn't your fault, you know that."

Whatever Ian wanted to respond with was drowned by strangled cry, and Mickey couldn't take it anymore; he couldn't sit on the side of the tub any longer, and he couldn't take off and leave Ian he"lpless in the tub, so instead he stood up and kicked off his socks.

"Move up," Mickey murmurs as he begins to push his jeans from his hips, leaving his boxers and cut-up t-shirt on as he steps in behind his boyfriend, "Lil' more."

The second Mickey's rested his back against the cold tile, Ian's already leaning back into his hold, pressing his face against Mickey's chest while his back rises and falls with every stifled sob. Because there's nothing else he can do, Mickey trails his hand over Ian's shoulders, arms, hands, chest. It's not sexual; it's intimate and loving and everything that Mickey's avoided and feared for most of his life. There'd been times he'd acted out of sympathy for others, but this didn't feel the same. It wasn't sympathy, it was a shared feeling of contentment, and if Ian wasn't there with him, Mickey wasn't sure how he was supposed to get up in the morning and carry on as if it didn't matter. There was a bond between them, and he wasn't sure if it was breakable, because even if he wanted to get up and walk away, he had a suspicion it wouldn't be long until he came back.

The crying doesn't slow, and Mickey tightens his grip around Ian's chest and whispers in his ear, "I'm right here, alright? Everything's gunna be okay, Ian. This shit is gunna pass, it always does."

Ian wants to believe that it'll pass, but all he can recognize is the feeling of desperation and hopelessness, and they pick eagerly at every thought  in his crowded mind. Instead of willing words to spill from his frozen lips, he buries his face in Mickey's chest and tries to breathe, picturing a time before he'd fallen into misery-induced sleeping coma.

"You hear me?" Mickey says more assertively, his voice growing a notch louder with assurance, "You're gunna be just fine, Ian Gallagher."

Ian sounds broken and drained as he whispers in response, "You don't want this."

The red-head had never said something so far from the truth. He's all Mickey want's.

"You idiot, of course I do. I fucking love you." The words slip out quicker than Mickey can process, his breath cut short the moment after in realization of his own confession. He can't decide whether to be thankful Ian has his back turned or wonder if he should've watched for a bad reaction.

The water's still streaming down on them, and Ian has to squint through the stream as he looks over his shoulder at Mickey's red cheeks and wide eyes, "You serious, Mick?"

Mickey look's down at the freckles on Ian's shoulder blade, overwhelmed with a sense of stage fright, "Yeah, I'm fuckin' serious. And I ain't leavin' you, so don't say shit like that."

Ian's world feels a little lighter as he replays the word's over in his mind- he'd been in love with Mickey since day one, even if he didn't know it then. It was all he'd ever wanted to hear coming from the Milkovich's lips, and the suddenness of it makes his head spin and his eyes sting with tears.

"Oh, shit," Mickey nearly groans; the last thing he'd intended to do was make Ian cry again, "I'm a fuckin' idiot, I'm sorry. Let me get the fuck out."

"No," Ian stutters and hold's Mickey's thighs still, because though his energy and attention span is wearing thin, there's no way he could let Mickey leave him now, "No, I- Why, Mick? How?"

"Why do I fuckin' love you?" Mickey almost sounds angry, as if the answer to his question should've been obvious, but after a moment's consideration he calms, "Uh, first thing I noticed is you're hair- Orange suits you, man. Took a few days, but eventually you smiled, too. Got a sexy ass smile, Gallagher."

The corner of Ian's lip's tug into a small smile, and Mickey nod's in confirmation, "Yeah, just like that. And you never gave a shit- it didn't matter what fucked up shit I did, you we're always kickin' my ass back into the real world."

"You didn't do fucked up shit," Ian mumbles quietly in response, and Mickey smiles to himself; he definitely pulled some stupid moves once or twice, but Ian never did give up on him.

It'd probably transitioned into a cold stream minutes ago, but Mickey only clues in as it fades from a mild temperature to something much icier. Ian's shivering again, and his skin hadn't stopped shaking. With a gentle shake, he gestures to the door, "Let's get you out of here before you freeze."

The distant stare is quickly returning to Ian's expression, and as Mickey steps out of the tub expecting Ian to follow, his expectation is lost when he looks down to find the undressed teen slumped against the tiles, refusing to move from the cold water. Just a moment ago he'd been talking, and while Mickey was sure the mood swings might give him whiplash, it wasn't something he couldn't deal with. From what he'd learned, depression was something close to drowning, and it was obvious that Ian was having a hard time keeping his head above the water.

"Hey, stay with me," Mickey insists as he gives his partner another shake, wondering if he'd ever be Ian's lifeboat or if it was the kind of drowning you can't come back from.

"So tired," Ian mutters, his head falling against the wall, "Need to sleep."

"I know, sweetheart," Mickey sighs as he spins the tap, frowning at the way Ian trembles in the cold air. With a swift movement, he slips his arm beneath Ian's bent knees, another under his arm and around his back. Not even a noise escapes Ian's lips now, but it's almost like an immediate reaction when he's settled into Mickey's arms, his body relaxing and his muscles losing their tension. There's not much of a complaint as Mickey set's Ian down on the his weak feet, using one arm support Ian's and the other to grab a dry towel off the hook on the wall.

Neither teen speaks as Mickey run's the towel over Ian's pale skin, crouching down just an inch or two to run the material over his wet ankles and thighs and trailing it up to his chest. For a second, they catch each others stare; Ian's eye's are rimmed with red, but the green looks vibrant behind the glisten of a tear, and Mickey wants to hug him, kiss him, and show him just how much he loves him, but he doesn’t want to push Ian's patience.

Instead, he runs the towel over Ian's hair, soaking up what water lingered and then wrapping the damp towel over his partners shoulders. Still, Ian shook as though it was winter and they were outside, his legs threatening to give out as Mickey wraps the material around his thin hips.

"I know you're hurtin', but I'm right here," Mickey says with affirmation, hoping that the appreciative look Ian flashes him means that he just might've made it a little better. It's when he wraps his arm around Ian's back, supporting him as they walk back through the hallway and into the boy's bedroom, when Ian realizes just how committed Mickey is.

They don't exchange a single word as Mickey help's Ian crawl back into his mattress, replacing the towel with a sheet he'd grabbed from the closet. The only sound is their own breathing, Ian's much calmer than before and Mickey's quick with a rush of emotion's he hadn't felt before. Caring for someone was alien to him, and when he'd first realized Ian wasn't as put together as he once assumed, the idea scared the shit out of him. None the less, drinking and smoking and ignoring his own feelings didn't change the overwhelming ache in his chest when he thought about Ian.

Now, Mickey's hollow ache had been replaced with love, and along with that came the stress of wanting Ian to be okay.

"Thing's are gunna get better," He whisper's softly into Ian's damp, red hair, intertwining they're fingers against his chest as they share the small space on the mattress. It's not a big bed, but neither mind as they curl into each other and settle their heads on the same pillow, "You know that, right?"

Ian mumbles something half-heartedly, but Mickey shakes his head stubbornly and refuses to let him brush it off, "Listen- there was times when I thought my life was goin' to shit, Ian. I didn't wanna wake up, 'cause everything fuckin' sucked. But it got better- you know why? 'Cause your freckled ass showed up in my life."

Ian's eyelids flick open at that, and he turns onto his side and lay's his hand over Mickey's chest.

"I fuckin' mean that," Mickey stutter's out, too nervous to look into Ian's eye's, "You saved me."

"I didn't do shit," Ian argues nonchalantly, lifting his arm to brush a hair from Mickey's forehead; his hand is caught in Mickey's tight unfaltering grip.

Shifting his elbow, Mickey lift's his face as close as he can to Ian's, determined to get his point across. His voice doesn't falter or soften as they breath against the other's lips, "You picked me the fuck up, Ian."

Ian attempts to talk back, but Mickey cut's him off with a quick, decisive kiss. Instead of pulling away, Ian lean's into the pressure and wrap's his palms over the small of his boyfriend's back. It's been day's since they've touched each other like this, and Mickey groans with pleasure as their hips ride together. After a second or two, the urgency fades into relief, and they're both clinging to each other like they'd been separated for years.

"I'm in this for the long fuckin' haul," Mickey breathes heavily into Ian's lips, "You got it?"

"I've got you," Ian responds with a quick nod, a small smile beneath his freckled cheeks as he rests his chin on his partner's chest, "I love you."

"Yeah," Mickey sighs out, finally feeling the tension in his chest fade away as they lean into each other, "Yeah, I love you too."

**Author's Note:**

> ianmilkovicch.tumblr.com


End file.
